"Dead? Not possible, Ursula!" Stooping in turn he lifted the dog; but the limbs sagged loosely downward and the head rolled over on the shoulders. The eyes were fixed and glazed, the chaps twitched back from the gums, leaving the teeth bared. There could be no doubt—Charlot's days of curiosity were ended.
"Stephen, what does it mean? What can have hurt poor Charlot?" But when reaching downward again she would have picked up the mask Villon anticipated her, setting his foot upon it.
"Don't touch it, for God's sake, don't touch it!"
"Monsieur Villon, that is the Dauphin's."
"It killed Charlot!"
"Killed Charlot? How?"
"Ask La Mothe, he gave it to the Dauphin and should know."
Perplexed, bewildered, vexed, too, at the destruction of the Dauphin's toy and the tone of Villon's reply, she caught at the table-edge, pulling herself upright.
"Stephen, what does it all mean?"
But La Mothe only shook his head. Comprehension had been staggered but had recovered, and was growing to conviction as small significances, luminous and imperative in spite of their triviality, pieced themselves together in his memory. But how could he answer the question? How put in words the fear which was taking shape in his mind? It was Villon who gave her the key.